


Ash and Flame

by Caritas_Lavellan



Series: Earth Mind: Alternative Perspectives [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/M, Fluff, Or possibly not..., Post-Trespasser, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-16 14:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caritas_Lavellan/pseuds/Caritas_Lavellan
Summary: Abelas inspected his gilt-edged invitation with discomfort.A Dance for Satinalia, he read, making out the Common words with an unpractised eye.Historical dress obligatory. To raise funds for the elven orphanage.The Viscount's ball was in honour of Lord Fen'Harel and Lady Virlath Lavellan Al'var, Comte and Comtesse of Kirkwall. He could hardly disdain to be present if his lord had condescended to attend. Perhaps he might endure it in a quiet corner somewhere.Unfortunately for the ancient elvhen Sentinel, the masquerade turns out to be the least of his problems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This comes after [Estwatch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888681/) in the [Earth Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/series/306273) series. 8154FA is 9:45 Dragon. 
> 
> With thanks to Bearly_Tolerable for the inspiration.

**8154FA, twenty-ninth day of the tenth month**

Frowning, Abelas stared up at the huge bronze figures half-hidden in the mist, contemplating memory. The sacred peak was to the north. He remembered it from long ago, and also far more recently.

“ _Vir sumeil._ ”

The deep voice startled him from reverie, and he turned and inclined his head. “My lord,” he replied, inflecting the elven with the appropriate tone of respectful agreement.

Lord Fen’Harel stood beside him, gripping the ship’s rail with mailed fists just as he himself did. The ship was pitching up and down, the waters churned by the passing traffic, and they needed to hold on tightly.

His lord appeared inclined to talk this morning. “When you came here before, did you come by sea or land?”

“By land,” he replied. “I took care to avoid the shemlen city. You knew that we convened upon the peak?”

“Naturally,” came the answer, with a hint of amusement. “Although I did not know from whence you came.”

“Through the Planasene, my lord,” said Abelas, ignoring the salt-laden sea spray dripping down his face. “I wished to see what had become of your old temple, and of the priests of Dirthamen. It was… unsatisfying.”

“To me also,” said Lord Fen’Harel, and his eyes slid over and down the giant torso hanging overhead. He sighed, and Abelas guessed that he was about to be asked a favour. “I had hoped… no, perhaps it is too much to ask…”

 _Get on with it, my lord,_ thought Abelas, then felt a rare frisson of delight that no-one could now hear his thoughts. Before they had sailed eastwards, before they had embarked on the westernmost reaches of the Waking Sea, they’d woken him from slumber, restored him to his body – unmarked by vallaslin, unsundered. His worship and his gratitude entirely unconstrained; his sense of duty to what must be: chosen, not compelled.

Fen’Harel’s lips twitched. “You can perhaps surmise, my friend, what I did not dare ask.”

“I should not hazard a surmise, my lord,” said Abelas, refusing to be drawn into Fen’Harel’s snare. Then he heard a soft chuckle behind him, and whirled around. “My lady,” he said, bowing low.

Lady Virlath Lavellan Al’var smiled sweetly – at him, rather than at her husband – and Abelas felt his heart beat faster. It was impossible to see her without having to stifle a pang of jealousy at his lord’s good fortune. Even dressed as she was, in a long green travelling cloak, her red hair hidden from where the wind might tangle and disturb it… it was hard to resist the urge to worship. Mythal had truly blossomed this incarnation.

“There is no need to ask in such a sideways fashion, Solas,” said his lady, laying a hand on his lord’s upper arm. She spoke in fluent elven also, just as they did. His lord flushed slightly, but as if he had enjoyed her sweet chastisement. “If Abelas would like to help us, he is free to do so… and if not, then he is likewise free to decline.”

“What would you have of me, my lady?” he found himself asking, lost in silver-violet eyes.

He’d chosen to die for Mythal, and he’d live for her as well.

It was, of course, a mistake.

****

**8152FA, first day of the second month**

Another tree root hidden under the snow. With his hand outstretched to grab at a nearby branch, Abelas caught himself from falling, and softly cursed. It seemed only a god’s favour could help him find the ruin that he sought.

He’d searched in vain for landmarks. Although the snow had lessened, the freezing winds still whistled through the forest like the screams of the damned. Yet, as he straightened, limping, ruing the way his metal sabatons conducted cold, he was conscious that the Veil was softer here – and that, for the first time in a dozen days, he might seek out the dreaming world. He sank against the wretched tree, and sank into himself.

As ever, in this strange cramped world, his mind would not be calm at once, but sprang around.

Cloaked and hooded, old grey cloth over ancient gilded armour, trudging through the drifts, he’d skirted the nearby shemlen city of Val Chevin, drawing the dreaming around him when he passed the armies’ stragglers on the road. His emerald vallaslin would mark him out as strange: forever foreign in this sundered world. Since he had left the Sanctuary, his duty had been turned upon its head: a guardian turned wanderer; a pilgrim where he once was destination; a priest turned novice sworn to comprehend Fen’Harel’s plans.

He had not joined Fen’Harel, yet.

He was not sure if he would ever join Fen’Harel.

A score of Sentinels remained, sent out in pairs to find what truth remained, sworn to meet on Summerday on Mythal’s sacred mountain – and he was still their leader. The only one on his own.

That part, he preferred.

Abelas ran his hand over his vallaslin, habitual obeisance to a goddess slain, and felt the play of light and glassy liquid deep within his soul. Once he had known purest water there, a sap from which the tree of life had bloomed. After aeons of emptiness, came brackish swamps and carrion. Now it sang with lyrium, that part he’d sworn with blood and will to Her. As he made his way into the forest, he wondered briefly once again which mirror Mythal’s soul had been secured within, and how Her prophecy of renewal would be fulfilled.

Most likely, not as well as everyone had hoped.

Sorrow and loneliness spread their familiar calm. His mind still at last, he found the direction he sought.

Casting the dreaming world aside, he stood, and felt anew the snow upon his cheeks. The magic of the Sanctuary had kept all cold and rain at bay, and weather had become a faded memory, the kind of thing a boy once knew. He’d known a quiet shock each time the weather changed, these recent months. Not always an unpleasant shock, but still: a reminder of the wrenching loss that only purpose might assuage.

It was his duty to find the Temple that had once been Dirthamen’s. Remembered as the Dalish God of Secrets, the one whose alter ego Fen’Harel had saved and damned their empire; the one who’d once served Mythal just as he had… the one who still survived, awoke, and found him…

Without warning, the snow beneath his feet gave way, and this time there was no protuding branch to snatch at. He fell a dozen feet and landed awkwardly, sprawled out, blinded by the sudden gleam of veilfire.

His duty to find the Temple, but the Temple found him first.

****

**8154FA, thirtieth day of the tenth month**

They were in a large shemlen building that his lord had referred to as the Viscount’s Keep, walking down a corridor whose red woollen carpet bore no resemblance to those they had maintained within the Sanctuary. Lady Virlath walked in the middle, flanked by himself and Lord Fen’Harel. Here, her title was the Comtesse of Kirkwall, absurdly lower in the city hierarchy than the Child of the Stone who served as Viscount. It was he who appeared to be giving the ball tonight, where Lord Fen’Harel and Lady Virlath would be guests of honour.

Abelas had inspected his gilt-edged invitation with discomfort. _A Dance for Satinalia,_ he’d read, making out the Common words with an unpractised eye. _Historical dress obligatory. To raise funds for the elven orphanage._

He could hardly disdain to be present if his lord had condescended to attend, but the prospect of being among a horde of uncivilised shemlen celebrating drunkenly some modern festival did not appeal. Still, it was worthy to raise money for abandoned elven children, and perhaps he might endure it in a quiet corner somewhere.

“I meant to say, Abelas,” said Lady Virlath, “that we thought you ought to have assistants in your task.”

Lord Fen’Harel nodded at his look of displeased surprise, and added, with the smoothness he had once been famed for throughout Elvhenan: “We would prefer you had a second-in-command. A person who is eager to learn, and who might take upon herself the work should you decide to leave.”

“Herself?” asked Abelas, his frown deepening. Likely this person was some shemlen artisan… and even if she was a woman, that would hardly make it better.

He took a breath, and resolved to explain to these his gods the thoughts that they had no desire to read. “When I agreed to survey how the ancient Temple of Dirthamen might be restored, I did not think that I should be required to bear anybody company while doing so.”

“In order for the Temple to be restored,” said Lady Virlath, as they continued up a flight of stairs to an upper floor, “we will need many artisans to carry out the work. You are accustomed to command, and yet…”

“…there will be people there who are afraid to ask you what they need to know,” continued her husband without missing a beat. As if they had practised this very conversation while they lay together in their bed!

Abelas’ eyes widened at the thought of his own blasphemy, and he did not find the words to answer.

Unconscious of the difficulty he was in, Lady Virlath smiled. “That is why we thought that one of my friends might assist you. She was trained in a number of ancient elven arts by a Dalish clan, and is used to solitude. She has lived for many years alone.”

They had approached a door at the end of another red-carpeted corridor, and Lord Fen’Harel reached out for the handle, pausing before he turned it. “She is waiting in here. I trust that you will be polite to her, Abelas?”

The inflection in his lord’s voice had been subtle, but detectable. A warning.

Abelas drew himself up, and tried to imagine an elderly elven female, marked by time and care in the way of those who had been born here. Such, it was his duty to respect – and even though her training would most likely be inadequate, with half-remembered techniques that would never serve – perhaps she might be of _some_ use.

“Naturally, my lord,” he answered, with an inward grimace.

Lord Fen’Harel nodded in acceptance, smiling that darkly amused smirk that he affected, and turned the handle.

Abelas followed his lord and lady, and found himself in a grander chamber than he had hitherto seen within this Keep. All the furnishings were strange to him, as strange as those within his lady’s estate here – the ceilings and narrow windows, the stonework and the fireplaces. The entire world was strange and foreign.

Yet he was sworn to be polite.

He looked around, wondering where this female was. Then, following Lady Virlath’s gaze, he saw her – a small woman, curled up in an armchair facing away from them towards the fire, her head resting on its arm, with only the hood of her blue cloak and a slippered foot still visible.

His lady crossed the room and knelt in front of the armchair, and he and Lord Fen’Harel followed decorously behind. “Wake up,” said Lady Virlath quietly. “Wake up, Merrill.”

The name sounded worryingly familiar, but it was only as the tiny woman sat up fully in the chair, yawning widely, her eyes blinking with drowsiness, that the full horror of the situation hit him.

“No!” he cried, struck by sudden agony of memory. Then: “No! My lord, you cannot…!”

Lady Virlath looked up at him, over her shoulder, and he paled as he glanced from one woman to the other – red hair, dark hair, dainty features, the soul of Mythal, the vallaslin of Ghilan’nain – and then to Lord Fen’Harel.

His lord looked… taken aback, as if searching immense vaults of memories for the key to his friend’s aberrant, rude behaviour. His lord had no idea… but _she_ did. Before the wretched woman could speak, he fled the room.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**8152FA, first day of the second month**

Still blinded by the veilfire only yards away, Abelas groaned at the sudden pain in his right tendon, then froze, suddenly aware of his vulnerability, alone and injured in the dark. Grimacing, he listened.

Far above, the wind still whistled, and birds cawed in the branches of the trees.

Through other openings nearby, above, at least two separate streams of water splashed into forgotten pools.

Somewhere, near at hand, a barrier blocked an entrance, its shimmering magic taunting, like a mirror.

No answering voices – or howls, or chitterings – came from the black depths that lay beyond the veilfire’s touch, and so, with excruciating care, he unbuckled his right sabaton and laid bare his ankle. A trickle of icy healing magic seeped out from his palm, pulled with difficulty through the Dread Wolf’s Veil.

At least he had not fallen so far out of time that he must resort to a _physical_ ice pack.

He let the stream of power flow around the swollen joint, his nausea subsiding as it brought balm to the injury. While Mythal’s chief sentinel had never sought the opportunity to join the ranks of the _dirth’ena enasalin_ before the crisis of her murder, the healing magic that he had mastered since it had proved useful on many occasions.

After a few minutes he decided he might seek to walk upon his foot again. Inscribing a rune of ice within his sabaton to inhibit any further swelling, Abelas eased the boot back on and stood to inspect his surroundings. The roof above him was open to the elements, a rough circular hole around the massive tree he’d leant against, whose tangled roots and parasitic fungal growths surrounded him. He’d landed on a heap of fallen masonry and gravestones, long-worn by time and covered with moss, and grass, and snow. Should he need to escape the way he’d come, it would be straightforward enough to raise some blocks with magic to make a stairway.

Being a practical and cautious man, he did this immediately, before he sought to explore the ruin.

That it _was_ a ruin, he was certain of: no sentinel or priest of worth would have allowed a tree to take root in the middle of a sacred tunnel such as this one, nor to have allowed a trespasser inside its precincts. Certainly no priest of Dirthamen, who saw and knew all. Abelas felt an old familiar trepidation gnaw at his heart: it would not have been unthinkable for Fen’Harel to have deceived intruders with a trap.

Yet honour demanded that he see for himself what fate had brought this ancient Temple. Brushing the snow off his long grey cloak, he spotted something glittering beneath the veilfire brazier. A torch of bronze, carelessly abandoned who knew who many centuries ago. He picked it up and lit it from the brazier, thanking Mythal for this good fortune. Once it had been easier to carry light within one.

Now he had the torch in hand, he moved along the walls, avoiding the freezing channel of water that lay along the centre of this… corridor, he guessed. At first away from the magic of the barrier, picking out the ancient shrines that dated this part of the Temple’s architecture to aeons before the crisis. Ruddy dye stained the crude stone figures, and Ghilan’nain’s markings were daubed in white on unlit stone beacons.

He’d reached a corner, and as he turned to the right, glimpsed an altar of stone, its penitent illuminated by a sympathetic magic that was echo and reflection of the torch within his hand. The Veil was even thinner here, stretched by desperation and a curse. Something had lived atop the altar – no! A _piece_ of something living.

And not the shemlen corpse whose skeleton had been picked clean a century ago, his papers and belongings strewn upon a threadbare cloth beside the altar. Surely he had not… _no._

Images swirled around him, more recent memories of fighting: Fen’Harel, with his habitual frown, and the quickling Inquisitor he’d met, the familiar magic sparking from her palm; each carrying a staff that sang with lyrium. She carried the piece of living flesh – the _ears –_ along with several others of its kind. Accompanied by their shemlen warrior and a spirit of compassion, they fought the horrors of this place with ease.

So Dirthamen _had_ visited, and recently. Abelas shivered at the thought, and grasped the torch more firmly.

And, as he turned around, the memories… twisted.

And he was not alone.

Heavy boots splashed through the water he’d skirted round.

“Who’s there?” he called, using the trade tongue that the shemlen referred to as _common_.

“ _Mirthadra falon!_ ” came the response in elven. “I did not think to see you ever again!”

His own face was lit in veilfire, but he couldn’t see the man. Memory suggested that he ought to know the voice and accent, yet they surely belonged to another place and time entirely…

Abelas thrust the torch forward and certainty descended on him.  “ _Mythal’enaste,_ ” he whispered. “Felassan!”

“ _Andaran atish’an,_ as they say these days,” said Felassan, with that grin that Abelas had not seen for millennia, not since before the doors to the Sanctuary had closed, with him outside. “How did you get in here?”

Felassan always did ask awkward questions, curse him. “Down the tree within the chamber, by the brazier.”

“Came down it, or came _down_ it?”

“The manner of my arrival is of no importance,” said Abelas, drawing himself up stiffly as befitting Mythal’s most loyal and senior Sentinel. Felassan still bore the vallaslin… the cub should pay him heed. “How did you survive?”

Felassan smirked. “Well, let us assume that I have not spent the entire time asleep.”

“Indeed,” responded Abelas, beginning to remember why he’d found the man so irritating in those far-forgotten days. “Let us assume that you have not. Why did you not return to Mythal’s Sanctuary?”

“Before the Mother died, I was assigned a duty,” said Felassan. He pressed his hand to his forehead in the correct manner, and Abelas mirrored the gesture.

It felt wrong, almost sacrilegious, to be honouring the Mother in this crypt, with the altar and its echoing curse behind him. Abelas shivered.

“I can guess what you are feeling,” said Felassan, with a gesture at their surroundings. “This ground is sacred to the God of Secrets. You fear that he might grow jealous of our worship. But I have seen the rest of what lies here, and statues of Mythal rise high within the central sanctuary. I do not think that Dirthamen objects.”

“You think he lives?” asked Abelas, surprised.

“Anything is possible,” said Felassan glibly. Then he paused, and spoke in a gentle tone. “ _Mirthadra falon,_ I was flying as a bird and saw you fall, and watched from the shadows as you healed your ankle. Is it… mended?”

Abelas took a long, slow breath. “Yes,” he said, and said no more.

“Then come with me _,_ ” said Felassan. “There are other places in this temple that are not so gloomy. Besides…”

He left the final word hanging, and Abelas valiantly resisted the urge to ask him to complete his sentence.

They were halfway back to the tree before Felassan, perhaps realising that he ought not to play rhetorical tricks on a senior Sentinel, continued, in a chastened voice: “Besides, there are some of our People here.”

“Elvhen such as you?” asked Abelas, remembering when he had asked Fen’Harel that as well.

“Well, not quite such as me,” said Felassan, chuckling. “Girls.”

Abelas felt the blood heat in his cheeks, and something like a lust creep into his loins. There had been no female elvhen left, when they departed. “Women?” he asked, in a voice that roamed too high. “Elvhen women?”

“The very same,” said Felassan. He looked up at Abelas curiously. “Temple prostitutes, if you wish to be crude about it. Has it been long?”

It _had_ been a long time. A very long time, and Abelas had almost reconciled himself to _some time_ being _never,_ reticent to risk his reputation using the women under his command. But… Temple prostitutes, still living?

They were back at the tree now, and Felassan led the way around the base of it, offering a hand to assist his senior over the largest roots – a hand that Abelas brusquely declined. He might have lost the knack of shifting form when the Dread Wolf sundered World from Fade, but he’d worked hard to retain his physical fitness.

“Over there,” said Felassan. He cast a globe of veilfire in his hand – a flagrant waste of mana – and sent it spinning across the cavern. Settling in the keystone of the archway, it illuminated the shimmering barrier Abelas had sensed before. “I’ve drunk my fill,” he added. “Go through the barrier, and ask for what you need.”

Abelas stared across the corridor. Why had he come here, if not to seek out traces of what was? And yet…

“Has age made you incapable?” said Felassan, with another of those damnable chuckles.

“Far from it,” snapped Abelas, and made to stride across towards the barrier, if only to escape the facile taunting. He found his wrist gripped tightly by Felassan, and snarled with rage. _No-one_ touched him.

“ _Ir abelas,”_ said Felassan, letting go. “But the girls do not let you in their sanctum wearing armour.”

He bit back a sharp retort, and watched as Felassan leant back languidly against the giant fungus that consumed the vitals of the tree, a rat against its roots. “Avert your eyes,” said Abelas, waspishly.

“My eyes are closed,” said Felassan, yawning, and when Abelas glanced back over his shoulder, saw the man had spoken truth, the snowflakes beginning to settle on his face as if to emphasise his chosen role of scenery.

Half-disbelieving his own intent, he unbuckled his vambraces and gauntlets, his sabatons and pauldrons, his cuirass and poleyn and greaves, and laid each piece of armour on the mossy stone like a child upon its bed.

He’d kept the grey cloak on, but now removed it, and folded and wrapped it around his waist in the manner of a towel. Casting a barrier against the cold, he hefted his torch and stepped into the water. “I’m going in,” he said.

Felassan ventured no answer save a subtle snore. _Fine,_ thought Abelas. _At least you cannot answer back now._

The water was ice-cold around his ankles, and the walk seemed longer than the few long limping strides it took. Like a drunk man reaching for his goblet, he gained the other walkway, and reached towards the golden barrier.

It crackled underneath his hand, its song entirely dissonant, and for the first time Abelas doubted.

Then, as if the magic had enchanted _him_ , hunger eclipsed reason. Without another glance back to Felassan, the Sentinel spoke low the words that let him spread the wards and passed into the room.

Despite Felassan’s words, the sight within was breathtaking. Abelas inhaled sharply.

****

**8154FA, thirtieth day of the tenth month**

“I presume you guessed he was a demon at that point?” asked Solas, resting his head lightly on his hand.

Abelas flushed darkly. “Not even then, my lord. Now, of course, I would be cautious. But then… it had been so long within the Sanctuary, and even so far in my travels I had not yet come upon a demon of that strength.”

Solas nodded soberly, his gaze drifting across into the fire's depths, and Abelas felt grateful that his lord had found this private chamber, within which to hear his wretched explanation. “Tell me the rest,” he said.

The command had carried no hint of laughter, and Abelas felt absolved. It was unwise to keep things from the God of Secrets. Dirthamen-Fen’Harel owned his secrets. Falon’Din-Fen’Harel owned his life. He had to serve.

****

**8152FA, first day of the second month**

Inside, the veilfire light was low, diffuse, glimmering gilded mosaics in honour to the gods. A hart of Ghilan’nain stood at each corner, at each of the four corners.

Abelas took this all in without thinking. Thought had been extracted from his mind. It streamed upon the floor.

He knelt.

A circular pool of water had been set within the floor, and in the very centre of that pool splashed down a torrent of water, and underneath that torrent stood a woman, delicately posed, no more than a half-dozen strides away, stretching with her back towards him.

Bathing.

It was an honourable duty, to provide for the needs of Sentinels and soldiers.

Water ran in rivulets down her naked back, her short dark hair massaged by fingers that were firm, and strong, and scented with some heady perfume. Her figure was slim, her thighs well muscled, and her ankles dainty.

Her ass… her ass was _perfect._ He needed to offer himself to her, would take whatever she could grant him.

He coughed.

The woman span around, and he felt his mouth fall open, gaping, ravenous at the sight of her veilfire-tinted breasts, just as she hastily covered them with arms. A locket hung around her neck, some powerful magic pulsing from it. Remembering his manners and her duty, his eyes ran up to her face. Large green eyes, blinked wide in consternation, and dark vallaslin, a sign of dedication to the Mother of the Halla, Ghilan’nain.

_That was right, wasn’t it? All of Dirthamen’s prostitutes were sacred to Ghilan’nain. He’d read that somewhere._

The woman giggled nervously. “Um… hello?” she said brightly. Then she peered more closely. “Oh! You’re Dalish! That’s a lovely Mythal vallaslin. I’ve never seen one that comes so far down your nose!”

Abelas frowned. Ought he to disabuse her of this notion? Perhaps Felassan had pretended he was Dalish.

“I’m Merrill,” said the woman, grinning from ear to ear. “I can’t believe that cheeky spirit. When I asked him to make my shower better, I didn’t think he’d send an actual man!”

“A… spirit?” asked Abelas. This woman was nothing like the girls that he remembered.

“Didn’t you meet him?” asked Merrill, and frowned slightly when he shook his head. “Well, no matter. I suppose I ought to ask what clan you’re from. I don’t remember seeing you at the Arlathvhen. When I was allowed to go, that was. That was why we came here, you see. I was so upset at not going, Varric made me go aboard.”

Abelas felt as if the conversation was rapidly heading away from him, and checked that his grey cloak was still firmly secured around his waist. “We?”

“Me and Isabela. She’s a pirate.”

 _Fenedhis,_ this woman was no elvhen. “I apologise for intruding,” said Abelas, resolving to murder Felassan.

Merrill’s face fell. “Oh no, don’t go!” She looked at her feet. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I’m terrible with men. Isabela had three in her cabin on her way… well, not three at a time, at least I don’t think so. Maybe two? I’m not sure. I wish that I could have a man. Some time. You’re… really lovely to look at, did you know?”

Nothing could have exceeded the blush that rose to his face at this, or the anger that succeeded it. A naked shemlen woman, propositioning _him,_ Mythal’s loyal Sentinel. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

Her green eyes widened helplessly, and filled with tears. “I… I’m sorry?”

“The way I look is none of your concern, _shemlen,_ ” said Abelas. “You are trespassing on sacred grounds.”

Merrill choked back a sob, and his heart hardened at her further show of weakness. “I know! I know!” she cried, falling to her knees. “I tried to make an offering to Falon’Din, when I saw that beautiful green mosaic in the largest hall. But Isabela w… wouldn’t wait for me, and so I left it in its place half-f… finished.”

“You ought to leave,” he repeated, but with less conviction, and tried to ignore the painful stab of longing in his chest. A longing for his own time, own community… a place where he would never make mistakes.

She staggered to her feet, flushed pink with embarrassment, shivering with the freezing water, apparently uncertain where to turn, and for only the second time in a thousand years he questioned the rightness of his actions. “Your clothes are over there,” he said, having scanned the room: he pointed to the brazier.

Then, as if his pity had intrigued her, she frowned and splashed across to him instead. He stepped back instinctively, putting his arms out, palms up towards her in defence.

“Where are _your_ clothes?” she asked, in sudden bright curiosity. A scented hand reached out to touch his naked chest, drawing a finger down his collarbone and leaving a trail of water. To his shame, he did not seek to prevent it, and found he was having to resist the urge to return her beaming smile. He turned his head away, decidedly uncomfortable with the quickling elf so close. She was… extremely well-proportioned, and…

“I… I… left them outside the barrier,” he said, and gripped her wrists as she placed both hands upon him.

Merrill smiled, and even more as he bore her arms back, to her sides. Her aura was surprisingly resilient. “Ooh. You’re strong! The spirit told you I was in here, didn’t it? You were hoping to have a tumble with me!”

He’d never heard that word before. “A… tumble?”

“It’s what Isabela does when she bathes. She tells a man she’s having a shower, and then they all want in to have a tumble with her there. They all end up so clean and pink and shiny!”

“That is the purpose of bathing,” said Abelas, wrinkling his nose in confusion. He looked up at the ceiling, and back down at the shivering, naked, grinning shem in front of him. “You… are a mage, and more powerful than anyone would think to look at you. Why did you not put a hot rune at the source of the water?”

“Oh, I tried,” said Merrill. She wriggled her wrists as if to comment on the fact he was still holding them, and when he released them, biting back a mutter of apology, pointed to the ceiling. “I can’t draw glyphs up there.”

Abelas sighed. These young ones didn’t know the simplest things. He sketched a heat rune in the pool, then commanded it to fly up to the ceiling, using the surface of the water as a channel. “Feel it,” he commanded.  

He watched as the woman walked towards the flowing stream, her hips swaying in an uncoordinated manner. Now he was certain she was not a Temple prostitute. Awkward, ungainly…

Curious, intelligent, needy, a vessel that might swallow all his wisdom…

_Fenedhis, she was not for him._

The woman gasped in delight as she tested the temperature of the water, then danced around in it, laughing merrily. “Show me how to do that!” she begged, leaning her head back as the steam rose round her body.

“No!” he cried. “It is sacrilege to teach someone who is not of my People. This is the most I can do for you.”

“Please!” she pleaded, running back across to him, her bare feet slipping on the wet stones as she stepped up out of the pool. “I will never have another chance to learn magic! I left my clan! My Keeper’s…”

What, or who, her Keeper was, he didn’t learn, because her feet slid from under her, and she collapsed clumsily against his chest. “No,” he said again, and the word fell like a blow as, on instinct, he pushed her heavily away.

The shem fell in a heap on the floor, and her green eyes turned to abyssal emerald slits. “May the Creators have mercy on you,” she screamed, enraged, as he turned, still cold, towards the barrier. “For I certainly won’t!”

  



End file.
